M.CHK- So. | $5.00 a Year. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class*Mail Rates. “es He Copyrighted 1881, by BEADLE AND ADAMS, August 11, 1881. Bg Published Every BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, Complete in this Number, Vol. IX. Week. No, 98 WiuaM Srreet, New York. Price, Ten Cents, N 0. 1 07 F ’ had been called “the Squire.” The lady sat | brother looking very often during the service enton S uest. opposite her brother in the wide old family | just concluded. pew to-night—a handsome-looking matron, It was a face that a man could scarcely look with a little rosy-cheeked damsel sitting by her | upon once without finding his glances wander- BY M. E. BRADDON, side—a damsel with flowing auburn hair, tiny | ing back to it aflarseertas not quite a perfect — hat and feather, and bright scarlet stockings, | face, but a very bright and winning one. CHAPTER I looking very much as if she had walked out of | Large gray eyes, with a wonderful light in . a picture by Mr. Millais. them, under dark lashes and darker brows; a THE COMMON FEVER. The congregation stood up to sing a hymn | complexion that had a dusky pallor, a delicate A WARM summer evening, with a sultry haze | when the sermon was ended, and Gilbert Fen- | semi-transparent olive-tint that oné seldom sees brooding over the level landscape, and a Sab- | ton turned his face towards the opposite line of | out of a Spanish picture: a sweet rosy mouth, bath stillness upon all things in the village of | pews, in one of which, very near him, there | and a piquant little nose of no jicular order, Lidford, Midlandshire. In the{jremoter corners | was a girl at whom Mrs. Lister had caught her made up the catalogue of this young lady’s of the old gothic church the shadows are ginning to gather as the sermon draws near its close; but in the center aisle and about the pulpit there is broad daylight still shining in from the wide western window, across the lower half of which there are tall fig- ures of the Evangelists in old stained glass. There are no choristers at Lidford, and the even- ing service is conducted in rather a drowsy way; but there is a solemn air of re about the gray old church that should be conducive to tranquil thoughts and pious meditations. Sim- le and earnest have een the words of the sermon, simple and earnest seem the coun- tenances of the con- gregation, looking rev- erently upward at their pastor; and one might fancy, __ contemplating tuat grand old church, so much too spacious for the needs of the little flock gathered there to- night, that Lidford was a forgotten, half-desert- ed corner of this earth, in which a man tired of the press and turmoil of the world might find an almost. monastic soli- tude and calm. So thought a gentle- man in the Squire’s pew —a good-looking man of about thirty, who was finishing his first Sunday at Lidford by devout ettendance at evening service. He had been thinking a good deal about this quiet country life during the service, wondering whether it was not the best life a man could live, after all, and thinking it all the sweeter because of his own experience, which had lain chiefly in cities. He was a certain Mr. Gilbert Fenton, an Aus- tralian merchant, and was On a visit to his sis- ter, who had married the fr land-owner dn Lidford, Martin Lis- ter—a man whose father Bi Wi. i WS \) yy Vv Yy Ul Mee - A STUNNING BLOW. charms. But in a face worth looking at there isalways something that cannot be put into words; and the brightest and best attributes of this face were quite be- yond translation. It was a face one might almost call ‘‘ splendid ”—there was such a light and glory about it at some moments. Gilbert Fen-, ton thought so to-night as he saw it in the full radiance of the western sunlight, the lips parted as the girl sang, the clear gray eyes looking upward. ba was DoF ate a ortly, genial - looking Pid a stood. by her side, and accompanied her to the church-porch when the hymn *was over. Here they both lingered a moment to shake hands with Mrs. Lister, very much to Gilbert’ Fenton’s satis- faction. They walked along the ‘churchyard Ie together, and Gil- ert. gave his. sister’s arm a little tug, which meant, ‘* Introduce me.” ““My brother Mr. Fen- ton, Captain Sedgewick, Miss Nowell.” The Captain shook hands with Gilbert. “Delighted to know ‘ou, Mr. Fenton; de- aut to know any one belonging to Mrs. Lister. You are going to stop down here for some time, 1-hope,” “T fear not for very long, Captain Sedge- wic I am a business man, yen see, and can’t afford to take a long holiday from the City.” Mrs. Lister laughed. “My brother is utterly devoted to commercial Renee, she said; ‘‘I ink he believes every hour wasted that he spends out of his count- ing-house.” ** And yet I was think- ing in church this even- ing that a man’s life might be happier in such a place as this, drifting away inakind of dreamy —-- FENTON S QUEST. idleness, than the ot successes possible to commerce could ever make it,” “You would very soon be tired of your dreamy idle- — his sister, “‘and sigh for your offiee and your club. ; 7 ~i country suits old people who have played their life and made an end of it,” said the Captain. “It suits my little girl here very well, too,” he added, with a fond glance at his companion; ‘‘she has her birds and her flowers, and her books and music; and I an think she ever sighs for any thing gayer than Lid- ord.” “Never, Uncle George,” said the girl, slipping her hand through his arm. And Gilbert Fenton saw that those two were very fond of each other, They came to the end of a shady, winding lane at this moment, and Captain Sedgewick and Miss Nowell wished Mrs. Lister and her brother good-evening, and went away down the lane arm-in-arm, “What a lovely girl she is!” said Gilbert when they were gone, i . “ Lovely is rather a strong word, Gilbert,” Mrs. Lister answered, coldly: ‘‘she is certainly pretty,’ but I hope you aré not going to lose your heart in that direction.” ‘There is no fear of that.’ A man may admire a girl’s face without being in any danger of losing hisheart.» But why not in that direction, Belle? Is there any special objection to the lady ?” ‘ “ Only that she is a nobody, without. either money or position; and I think you ought to have both when you marry ?” “Thanks for the implied compliment; but I do not fancy that an Australian merchant can expect to secure a wife of very exalted position; and I am the last man in the world to marry for money.” “TL don’t for a moment suppose you would marry any one you didn’t like from mercenary considerations; but there 1s no reason you should make a foolish match,’’ “Of course not, I think it very doubtful whether I shall ever marry atall, I am just the kind of a man to go down to my grave a bachelor.” “ Why so, Gilbert?” “Well, Tcan hardly tell you, my dear. Perhaps I am rather difficult to please—just alittle stony-hearted and invulnerable. I know that since I was a boy, and got over my school-boy love affairs, I have never seen the woman who could touch my heart. I have met plenty of pretty women, and plenty of brilliant women, of course, in society ; and have admired them, and there an end, I have never seen a woman whose face impressed me 80 — at first sight as the face of your friend Miss Now- ell. “Lam very sorry for that.” “ But why, Belle?” “Because the girl is a nobody—less than nobody. Earn is an unpleasant kind of mystery about her “How is that? Her uncle, Captain Sedgewick, seems to be a gentleman.” ‘ “Captain Sedgewiok is very well, but hoe is not her uncle ; he adopted her when she was @ very little girl.” “ But who+are her people, and how did she fall into his hands?” ‘*T have never heard that. He is not very fond of talking about the subject. When we first came to know thom, he told us that Marian was only his adopted niece ; and he has never told us any more than that.” “« She is the daughter of some friend, I suppose. They seem yery much ed to each other.” “ Yos, she is very fond of him, and he of her. She is —— le girl; I have nothing tosay against her; uta “But what, Belle?” “*T shouldn't like you to fall in love with her.” “ But I should, mamma !” cried the damsel in scarlet stockings, who had absorbed every word of the forego- ing conversation. ‘I should like Uncle Gil to love Mar- ian just as I love her. She is the dearest girl in the world, Whon we had a juvenile party last winter it was Marian who dressed the Christmas-tree—every bit; and she played the piano for us all the evening, didn’t she, mamma?” “ She is very good-natured, Lucy ; but you mustn’t talk nonsense ; and you ought not to listen when your uncle and I are talking. It is very rude.” “But I can’t help hearing you, mamma,” They were at home by this time, within the grounds of a handsome red-brick house of the early Georgian era, which had been tha property of the Listers ever since it was built. Without, the gardens were a picture of neat- ness and order; within, every thing was solid and com- fortable; the furniture of a somewhat ponderous and exploded fashion, but handsome withal, and brightened here and there by some concession to modern notions of elegance or ease—a dainty little table for books, a luxu- rious arm-chair, and so on. ss Martin Lister was a gentleman chiefly distingvished by good nature, hospitable instincts, and an enthusiastic devotion to agriculture. There were very few things in common between him and his brother-in-law, the Aus- tralian merchant; but they got on very well together for @ short time, Gilbert Fenton pretended to be profound- ly interested in the thrilling question of drainage, deep or superficial, and seemed to enter unreservedly into eyery discussion of the latest invention or improvement in agricultural machinery; and in the mean time he really liked the repose of the country, and appreciated the varying charms of landscape and atmosphere with a fervor unfelt by the man who been born and reared amidst those pastoral scenes - The two men smoked their cigars together in a quietly companionable spirit, strolling about the gardens and farm, dropping out a sentence now and then, and anon falling into a laay reverie, each pondering upon his own aftairs—Gilbert meditating transactions with foreign houses, risky bargains with traders of doubtful solvency, or hazardous investments in stocks, as the case might be; the gentleman-farmer ruminating upon the chances of 4 good harvest, or the probable value of his Scotch short- Mr, Lister had preferred lounging about the farm with a sigek in his mouth to,attendance at church upon this particular Sunday evening. He had finished hiscustom- ary round of inspection by this time, and was sitting by one of the open windows of the drawing room, with his body in one luxurious chair and his legs extended upon another, deep in the study of the “Gardener’s Chroni- pms which he flung aside upon the appearance of his ‘amily. ® “Well, Toddlekins,” he cried, to the little girl, “I hope you were very attentive to the sermon; listened for two and made up for your lazy dad... That’s.a vicarious kind of devotion that ought to be permitted occasionally to a hard working fellow like me. I’m glad you’ve come back to give us some tea, Belle. Don’t go up stairs; let Susan carry up your bonnet and shawl. It’s nearly nine Lp Toddlekins wants her tea before she goes to ed. “Lucy has had her tea in the nursery,” said Mrs. Lister, as she took her seat before the cups and saucers, “But she will have some more with papa,” replied Martin, who had an amiable knack of spoiling his child- ren. There were only two—this bright fair-haired Lucy, aged nine, and a sturdy boy of seven. They sipped their tea, and talked alittle about who had been at church and who had not been, and the room was filled with that.atmosphere of dullness which seems to pre- vail in such households upon a summer Sunday evening ; akind of palpable emptiness which sets a man specu- lating how many years he may have to- live and how many such Sundays he may have to spend, He is apt'to end by wondering a little whether life is really worth the trouble it costs, when almost the best thing that can come of it is a condition of comfortable torpor like this. Gilbert Fenton. put down his cup and went over to one of the open windows. It was nearly as dark as it was likely to be that midsummer night. A new moon was shining faintly in the clear evening sky; and here and there a solitary star shone with a tremulous brightness, The shadows‘of the trees made spots of solemn darkness on the wide lawn before the windows, and a warm, faint sweetness came from the crowded flower-beds, where all the flowers in this light were of one grayish silvery hue, “Tt’s almost too warm an evening for the house,” said Gilbert ; ‘‘ I think I’ll take a stroll,” “Td come with you, old fellow, but I’ve been all round the farm, and I’m dead-beat,” said good-natured Martin Lister. ° “ Thanks, Martin; 1 wouldn’t think of disturbing you. You look a picture of comfort in that-easy-chair. I shall only stay long enough to finish a cigar.” He walked slowly across the lawn—a noble stretch of level greensward, with dark spreading cedars and fine old beeches scattercd about it; he walked slowly towards the gates, lighting his cigar as he went, and thinking. He was thinkiug of his past life, and of hisfuture, What wasittobe? A dull, hackneyed course of money-mak- ing, checkered only by the dreary vicissitudes of trade, and brightened only by such selfish pleasures as consti- tute the recreations of a business man—an occasional dinner at Blackwall or Richmond, a week’s shooting in the autumn, a little easy-going hunting in the winter, a hurried seamper over some of the beaten roads, or a fortnight at a German spa? his pleasures hitherto, and he had found life pleasant enough, Perhaps he had been too busy to question the pleasantness of these things. It was only now that he found himself away from the familiar arena of his daily life, with neither employment nor distraction, that he was able to look back upon his career deliberately, and ask himself whether it was one that he could go on living without weariness for the remainder of his days, He had been at this time a little more than sev. in business, He had been bred up with no e of ever having to take his place in the counting-house, had deen educated at Eton and Oxford, and had eee taught to anticipate a handsome fortune from his father, All these expectations had been disappointed by Mr. Fenton’s sudden death at a period of great commercial distur- bance, The business was found ina state of entangle- ment that was very near insolvency; and wise friends told Gilbert Fenton that the a ne coming well out of these perplexities lay with . The business was too g to be sacrificed, and the business was all his father had left behind him, with the exception of a houseful of handsome furniture, two or three if and a couple of pairs of pee ees were sold by auction wi a few weeks of the eral. Gilbert Fenton took upon himself the management of the business. He hada clear, comprehensive intellect, which adapted itself very easily to commerce. He pu his shoulder to the wheel with a will, and worked for the first three years of his business career as it is not given to many men to work in the course of their lives. By that time the ship had been steered clear of all rocksand quicksands, and rode the commercial waters gallantly. Gilbert was not a rich man, but was in a fair way to be- come a rich man; and the name of Fenton stood as high as in the palmiest days of his father’s career. His sister had fortunately married Martin Lister some years before her father’s death, and had received her dowry at the time of her marriage. Gilbert had only himself to work for. At first he had worked for the sake of his dead father’s honor and repute; later he fell intoa groove like other men, and worked for the love of money- making—not with any sordid love of money, but with that natural desire to accumulate which grows out of a business career, To-night he was in an unusually thoughtful humor, and inclined to weigh things.in the balance with a doubt- fulness as to their'yalue which was new to him. The complete idleness and emptiness of his life in the country had made him meditative. Was it worth living, that monotonous business life of his? Would not the time soon come in which its would oppress him, as the dullness of Lidford House had oppressed him to- night? His youth was fast nay, had it not, ‘Had not youth lefthim years xi at oon when og Rae ee a once career 2—an the pleasures that had been fresh few years were rapidly growing stale, man bse, the pine-groves where the band played, the gambling-saloons and their company, by though he had never staid more than a fortnight at any one of them. He had exhausted Brittany and the south of’ France in those fapid scampers ; skimmed the cream of their novelty, at any rate. He did not care much for field-sports, and hunted and slfot in a jog-trot safe kind of way, with a view, to the benefit of his health, which savored of old bachelorhood. And as for the rest of his pleasures—the social rubber at his club, the Black- wall or Richmond dinners—it seemed only custom that made them agreeable, If I had gone to the bar, as I intended to do before my father’s death, I should have had an object in life,”’ he thought, as he puffed slowly at his cigar; “ but a com- mercial man has nothing to hope for in the way of fame, nothing to work for except Money. I have a good mind to sell the business, now that itis worth selling, and go in for the bar, after all, late as it is,” He had thought of this more than once ; but he knew the fancy was a foolish one, and that his friends would laugh at him for his folly. He was beyond the grounds of Lidford House by this time, sauntering onward in the fair summer night ; not indifferent to the calm loveliness of the scene around him, only conscious that there was some void ‘within himself which these things could not fill, He walked along the road by which he and his sister had come back from church, and turned into the lane at the endof which Captain Sedgewick had bidden them good-night. He had been down this lane before to-night, and knew that it was one of the prettiest walks about Lidford ; so there was scarcely anything strange in the fact that he should choose this promenade for his evening saunter. The rustic way, wide enough fora wagon, and with sloping grassy banks, and tall straggling hedges full of dog-roses and honeysuckle, led towards’ a river—a fair winding stream, which was one of the glories of Lidford. A little before one’came to the river, the lane opened upon a green, where there was a mill.and a miller’s cot- tage, a rustic inn, and two or three other houses of more or pretensions, ilbert Fenton wondered which of these was i- tation of Captain Sedgewick,concluding that hotell ney officer and his niece must needs live in one of them. He reconnoitered them as he wént by the low garden-fences over which he could see the pretty lawns and flower- beds, with clusters of evergreens here and there, and a wealth of roses and seringa. One of them, the prettiest and most secluded, was also the smallest, alow white- walled cottage, with casement windows above, and old- fashioned bow-windows below, and a porch overgrown with roses. The house lay back a little-way from the green; and there was a tiny brook ruhning beside the holly hedge that bounded the garden, spanned by a little rustic bridge before the gate. Pausing just beside this bridge, Mr. Fenton heard the * joyous barking of a dog, and caught a brief glimpse of a light muslin dress flitting across the little lawn at one side of the cottage. While he was wondering about the owner of this dress, the noisy dog came rushing toward the gate, and in the next moment a girlish figure appeared in the winding path that went in and out among the flower beds, aha Gilbert Fenton knew that tall, slim-figure very well. He had guessed rightly, and this low white-walled cot- tage. was really Captain Sedgewick’s, g It seemed to him as if a kind of instinct had brought to that precise spot, Miss Nowell came to the gate, and stood there lookin out, with a Skye-terrier in her arms, Gilbert drew feet a little, and flung his cigar into the brook. She had not seen him yet. Her looks were wandering far away across the green, as if in search of some one, Gilbert Fenton stood quite still wate! her, She looked even prettier without her bonnet she had ‘looked in the church, he thought; the rich dark-brown hair gathered in a great knot at the back of the head ; the perfect throat circled by a broad black ribbon, from which there hung an old-fashioned ie cross; the youthful figure set off by the girlish muslin dress, so be- coming in its utter simplicity. ‘ He could not stand there forever looking at hoz, pleas- ant as it might be to him to contemplate the lovely face ; 80 he made a little movement at last, and came a few steps nearer to the gate. “Good evening once more, Miss Nowell,” he said, She looked up at him, surprised by his sudden appear- ance, but in no manner embarrassed. “Good evening, Mr. Fenton. this moment. I was looking for my uncle, He has gone out for a little stroll while he smokes his cigar, and I ex- pect him home every minute.” “T have been indulging in a solitary cigar myself,” an- swered Gilbert. ‘One is apt to be inspired with an an- tipathy to the house on this kind of évening. I left the Listers yawning over their tea-cups, and came out for aramble. The aspect of the lane at which we parted company this evening tempted me down this way, What a pretty house you have! Do you know, I guessed that it was yours before I saw you.” — “Indeed! You must have quite a talent for guess- i ” ee Not in a general way; but there is a fitness in things, Yes, I felt sure that this was your house,” “Tam glad you like it,” she answeredsimply. “Uncle George and I are very fond of it, But it must seem a poor little place to you after Lidford House.” “‘Zidford House is spacious, and comfortable, and commonplace. One could hardly associate the faintest touch of romance with such a place, But about’ this one might fancy anything. Ah, here is your uncle, I ” q Captain ick came towards them, surprised at ‘seeing Mr. Fenton, with whom he shook hands aggin very cordially, and who repeated his story about the ss Frapossbity of enduring to stop in the house on such a night. ‘ i Oaptain insisted on his going in-doors with them aewceae and he exhibited no disinclination to linger in the cottage drawing-room, though it was only about a I did not see you till’ ae be FENTON’S QUEST, fourth of the size of that at Lidford House. It looked a very pretty room in the lamp-light, with quaint old-fash- ioned furniture, the freshest and most deli chintz hangings and coverings of chairs and sofgs, and some Valuable old china here and there. Captain Sedgewick had plenty to say for himself, and was pleased to find an intelligent stranger to converse with. His health had failed him long ago, and he had turned his back upon the world of action forever ; but he ‘was as cheerful and hopeful as if his existence had been the gayest possible to man, Of course they talked a little of military matters, the changes that had come about in the service—none of them changes for the better, according to the Captain, who was a little behind the times in his way of looking at these things. He ordered in a bottle of claret for his guest, and Gil- bert Fenton found himself seated by the open bow-win- dow looking out at the dusky lawn, and drinking his wine, as much at home as if-he had been a visitor of the Captain’s for the last ten years. Marian Nowell sat on the other side of the room, with the lamp-light shining on her dark-brown hair, and with that much-to-be-envied Skye-terrier on her lap, Gilbert glanced across at her every now and then while he was talking with her uncle; and by-and-by she came over to the window, and stood behind the Captain’s chair, with her clasped hands rest- ing upon his shoulder. Gilbert contrived to engage her in the conversation presently. He found her quite able to discuss the airy topics which he started—the last new volume of poems, the picture of the year, and so on. There was nothing awkward or provincial in her manner; and if she did not say any thing particularly brilliant, there was good sense in all her remarks, and sho had a bright, animated way of speaking that was very charming. She had lived a life of peculiar seclusion, rarely going beyond the village of Lidford, and had.contrived to find perfect happiness in that simple existence. The Captain told Mr. Fenton this in the course of their talk. “T have not been ‘able to afford so much as a visit to London for my darling,” he said; ‘‘ but I do not know that she is any the worse for her ignorance of the great world. The grand point is that she shoul4 be happy, and I thank God that she has been happy hitherto.” “TI should be very ungrateful if I were not, uncle George,” the girl said, in a half-whisper. Captain Sedgewick gave a thoughtful sigh, and was silent for a little while after this; and then the talk went on again until the clock upon the chimney-piece struck the half-hour after ten, and Gilbert. Fenton rose to say good-night. ‘I have staid a most unconscionable time, i fear,” he said; “but I had really no idea it was so “Pray, don’t burry away,” replied the Captain. ‘You ought to help me to finish that bottle. Mavian and I are not the earliest people in Lidford!” Gilbert would have had no objection to loiter away another half-hour in the bow-window, talking politics with the Captain, or light literature with Miss Nowell, but he knew that his prolonged absence must have already caused some amount of wonder at Lidford House; 80 he held firmly to his good-night, shook hands with his new friends, holding Marian Nowell’s soft slender hand in his for the first time and wondering at the strange magic of her touch, and then went out into the dreamy atmosphere of the summer night a changed creature, “Ts this love at first sight?” he asked himself, as he walked homeward alongthe rustic lane, where dog-roses and the starry flowers and the wild convulvulus gleamed whitely in the uncertain light, “‘ Is it? Ishould have been the last of men to believe such a thing possible yesterday; and yet to-night I feel as if that girl were destined to be the ruling influence of my future life. Why isit? Be- cause she is .ovely? Surely not, Surely I am not so weak a fool as to be caught by a beautiful face! And yet what else do I know of her? Absolutely nothing, She may be the shallowest of living creatures—the most selfish, the falsest, the basest. No; I do not believe she could ever be false or unworthy. There is something noble in her face—something more than mere beauty, Heaven knows, I have seen enough of that in my time, I could scarcely be so childish as to be bewitched by a pair of gray eyes and a rosy mouth; there must be some- thing more. And, after all, this is most likely a passing fancy, born out of the utter idleness and dullness of this place. I shall go back to Lordon in a week or two, and forget Marian Nowell, Marian Nowell!” He repeated the name with unspeakable tenderness in his tone—a deeper feeling than would have seemed nat- ural to a passing fancy. It was more like a symptom of sickening for life’s great fever. It was close upon eleven when he made his appearance in his sister’s drawing-room, where Martin Lister was enjoying a comfortable nap, while his wife stified her yawns over a mild theological treatise. He had to listen to a good deal of wonderment abeut the length of his absence, and was fain to confess to an accidental encounter with Captain Sedgewick, which had necessitated his going into the cottage, “Why, what could have taken you that way, Gilbert ?” ‘A truant fancy, I suppose, my dear. It is as good a ‘way as any other.” Mrs. Lister sighed, and shook her head doubtfully. ‘‘What fools you men are,” she said, “about a pretty face!” “Including Martin, Belle, when he fell in love with ‘ your fair self?” ‘“‘ Martin did not stare me out of countenance in church, sit, But you have almost kept us wai for prayers.” The servants came filing in. Martin woke with a start, and Gilbert Fenton knelt down ——e sister’s household to make his evening orisons. But his thoughts were not easily to be fixed that night. They wandered very wide of that simple family prayer, and made them- selves intoa vision the future, in which he saw his sand life changed and brightened by the com: of a fair young wife. —— ‘ ’ CHAPTER II, MARIAN’S STORY, THE days passed, and there was no more dullness or emptiness for Gilbert Fenton in his life at Lidford. He went every day to the white-walled cottage on the green, It was easy enough to find some fresh excuse for each visit—a book or a piece of music which he had recom- mended to Miss Nowell, and had procured from London for her, or something of an equally frivolous character, The Captain was always cordial, always pleased to see him. His visits were generally made in the evening, and it was his delight tolinger over the pretty little round table by the bow-window drinking tea dispensed by Mar- ian. The bright home-like room, the lovely face turned so trustingly to his; these were the things which made that fair vision of the future that haunted him so often now. He fancied himself the master of some pretty villa in the suburbs—at Kingston or Twickenham, perhaps, with a garden sloping down to the water’s edge, a lawn on which he and his wife and some chosen friend might sit after dinner in the long summer evenings, sipping their claret or their tea, as the case might be, and watching the last rosy glowof the sunset fade and die upon the river, He fancied himself with this girl for his wife, and the delight of going back from the dull, dry-as-dust labors of his city life to a home in which she would bid him welcome. He behaved with a due amount of cau- tion, and did not give the young lady any reason to sus- pect the state of the case yet a while. Marian was per- fectly devoid of coquetry, and had no idea that this gen- tleman’s constant presence at the cottage could have any reference to herself. He liked her uncle; what more natural than that he should like that gallant soldier, whom Marian adored as the first of mankind? And it was out of his liking for the Captain that he came so often. The Captain, however, had not been slow to discover the real state of affairs, and the discovery had given him unqualified satisfaction. For a long time his quiet contentment in this pleasant, simple, easy-going life had been clouded by anxious thoughts about Marian’s future. His death— should that event happen before she married—must needs leave her utterly destitute. The little property from which his income was derived was not within his power to bequeath. It would pass, upon his death, to one of his nephews. The furniture of the cot- tage might realize a few hundreds, which would most likely be, for the greater part, absorded by the debts of the year and the expenses of his funeral. Altogether, the outlook was a dreary one, and the Captain had suf- | pal fered many a sharp pang in brooding over it. Lovely and attractive as Marian was, the chances of an advantageous ene were not many for her in such a place as Lid- ord, It was natural, therefore, that Captain Sedgewick should welcome the advent of such a man as Gilbert Fen- ton—a man of good position and ample means; a thor- oughly unaffected and agreeable fellow into the bargain, and quite handsome enough to win any woman's heart, the Captain thought. He watched the two young people together, after the notion of this thing came into his mind, and about the sentiments of one of them he felt no shadow of doubt, He was not quite so clear about the feelings of the other. There was a perfect frankuess and ease about Marian that seemed scarcely compatible with the growth of that tender passion which generally reveals itself by a certain amount of reserve, and is more eloquent in silence than in speech, Marian seemed always pleased to see Gilbert, always interested in his so- ciety; but she did not seem more than this, and the Captain was sorely perplexed. There was a dinner-party at Lidford House during the second week of Gilbert’s acquaintance with these new friends, and Captain Sedgewick and his adopted niece were invited. “They are pleasant people to have at a dinner-party,” Mrs. Lister said, when she discussed the invitation with her husband and brother; ‘‘so I suppose they may as well come—though I don’t want to encourage your folly, Gilbert.” “My folly, as you are kind enough to call it, is not de- pendent on your encouragement, Belle.” “Then it is really a serious case, I suppose,” said Mar- tin. “T really admire Miss Nowell—more than I ever ad- mired any one before, if that is what you call a serious case, Martin.” “Rather like it, I think,” the other answered, with a laugh. "The dinner was a very quiet business—a couple of steady-going country gentlemen with their wives and daughters, a son or two more or less dashing and sports- manlike in style, the rector and his wife, Captain Sedge- wick and Miss Nowell. Gilbert had to take one of the portly matrons in to dinner, and found himself placed at some distance from Miss Nowell during the repast; but he was able to make up for this afterwards, when he slipped out of the dining-room some time before the rest of the gentlemen, and found Marian seated at the piano playing a dreamy reverie of Goria’s, while the other ladies were — in a little knot discussing the last village scandal, He went over to the piano and stood by her while she played, et fondly down at the graceful head, and the white hands gliding gently over the keys. He did not disturb her by much talk ; it was quite enough hap- piness for him to stand there watching her as she played. Later, when a couple of whist-tables had been established and the brilliantly-lighted room had grown hot, those two sat together at one of the open windows, looking out at the moonlit lawn; one of them supremely happy, and i with a kind of undefined eee aaaaan jppiness was a dangerous thing—a iz wo be wise to — out of his heart and have done with. “‘My holiday is very nearly over, Miss Nowell,” Gil- bert Fenton said, by-and-by. “I shall have to go back to London and the old commercial life—the letter-writing and interview-giving, aud all that kind of thing.” “Your sister said you were very fond of the counting- house, Mr. Fenton,” she answered lightly. “I dare say, if you would only confess the truth, you are heartily tired of the country, and will be delighted to resume your business life.” ““T should never be tired of Lidford.” as Indeed! and yet it is generally considered such a dull place,” “Tt has not been so to me, It will always be a shining spot in my memory, different and distinct from all other places,” She looked up at him, wondering a little at his earnest tone, and their eyes met—his full of tenderness, hers only shy and surprised. It was not then that the words he had to speak could be spoken, and he let the conver- sation drift into a general discussion of the merits of town and country life. But he was determined that the words should be spoken very soon. He went to the cottage next day, between three and four upon a drowsy summer afternoon, and was: so for- tunate as to find Marian sitting under one of the walnut- trees at the end of the garden reading a novel, with her faithful Skye-terrier in attendance, He’ seated himself on a low garden-chair by her side and took the book gently from her hand. *“‘T have come to spoil your afternoon’s amusement,” he said, ‘‘I have not many days more to spend in Lid- ford, you know, and I want to make the most of a short time.” “The book is not particularly interesting,” Miss Nowell answered, laughing. ‘1’ll go and tell my uncle you are here. He is taking an afternoon nap; but I know he'll he pleased to see you.” “Don’t tell him just yet,” said Fenton, detaining her. “T have something to say to you this afternoon—some= thing that it is wiser to say at once, perhaps; though I have been willing enough to put off the hour of saying it, ag @ man may well be when all his future life depends upon the issue of a few words, I think you'must know what I mean, Miss Nowell, Marian, I think you can guess what is coming. I told you last night‘how sweet Lidford had been to me.” “Yes,” she said, with a bright, inquiring look in her eyes. * But what have I to do with that?” “Everything. It is you who have made the little coun- try village my paradise, Oh, Marian, tell me that it has not been a fool’s paradise! My darling; I love. you with all my heart and soul, with an honest man’s first and only love. Promise that you will be my wife.” He took the hand that lay leosely on her lap, and pressed it in both hisown. She withdrewit gently, and sat looking at him with a face that had grown Buddenly le. “You do not know what you are asking,” she said; “you can not know. Captain Sedgewick is not: my uncle. He does not even know who my parents were. I am the most obscure creature in the world.” “Not one degree léss dear to me because of that, Ma- rian; only the dearer, Tell me, my darling, is there any hope for me?” “T never thought—” she faltered; I-had no idea—” “That to know you was tolove you, My life and soul? I have loved you from the hour I first saw you in Lid- ford Church, I was a doomed man from that moment Marian. Oh, my dearest, trust me, and it shall go hard I do not make your future life a happy one, ye that Iam ten years—more than ten years—your 2 that is a difference on the right side. I have fough#the battle of life and have conquered, and am strong enough to protect and shelter the woman I love. Come, Marian,. I am waiting for a word of hope.” “And do you really love me?” she asked, wonderingly. “It seems so strange after so short a time.” **T loved you from that first evening in the church my dear.” “T am very grateful to you,” she said, slowly, “and I am proud—I have reason to be proud—of your p: ence. But I have known you such a short time, afraid to give you any promise.” “ Afraid of me, or of yourself, Marian?” “Of myself,” “In what way?” “Tam only a foolish, frivolous girl. You offer me se much more than I deserve, in offering me your love like this. I scarcely know if I have a heart to give to any one, I know that I have never loved any body ex- oo my one friend and protector, my dear adopted uncle. * But you do not say that you can not love me, Marian. Perhaps I have spoken too soon, after all, It seems to me that I have known you for a lifetime ; but that is only a lover’s fancy. Iseem almost a stranger to you, per- haps?” “ Almost,” she answered, looking at him with clear, truthful eyes. ‘¢That is rather hard upon me, my dear. But I can wait. You do not know how patient I can be.” He began to talk of different subjects after this, a little depressed and disheartened by the course which the in- terview had taken, He felt that he had been too precipi- tate, What was there in a fortnight’s intimacy to justify such a step except to himself, with whom time had been measured by a different standard since he had known Marian Nowell? He was angry with his own eagerness, which had brought upon him this semi-defeat. Happily Miss Nowell had not told him that his case was hopeless, had not forbidden him to approach the subject again; nor had she exhibited any involuntary sign of aversion to him. Surprise had appeared the chief sentiment caused by his revelation. Surprise was natural to such girlish inexperience; and after surprise had passed away more tender feelings might arise, a la~ tent tenderness unsuspected hitherto. “T think a woman can scarcely helpreturning a man’s love, if he is only as thoroughly in earnest as I am,” Gil- bert ‘ton said to as he sat under the walnut= © trees trying to talk pleasantly, and to ignore the serious conversation which had preceded that careless talk. Iam He saw the Captain alone next day, and told him what. had happened. George Sedgewick listened to him profound attention, and a grave, anxious face, with “She didn’t reject you?” he said, when Gilbert had finished his story. “ Not in plain words, But there was not much to indi- cate hope. And yet I cling to the fancy that she will come to love me in the end. -To think otherwise would be utter misery to be. I can not tell you how dearly I Jove her, and how weak I am about this business, It seems contemptible for a man to talk about a broken heart; but I shall carry an empty one to my grave unless I win Marian Nowell for my wife.” “You. shall win her!’ said the Captain, energetically. “You are a noble fellow, sir, and will make her an excel- ent husband. . She will not be so foolish as to reject such & disinterested affection. Besides,” he added, hesitating 8 little, “‘ I have a very shrewd notion that all this appa- rent indifference is only shyness on my little girl’s part, and that she loves you.” “ You believe that!” cried Gilbert, eagerly. ‘Tt is only guess-work on my part, of course, I am an old bachelor, you see, and have had very little experi- ence as to the signs and tokens of the tender passion. But I will sound my little girl by-and-by. She will be more ready to confess the truth to her old uncle than she would to you, perhaps. I think you have been a trifle hasty about this affair. There is so much in time and custom.” “It is only a cold kind of love that grows out of cus- tom,” Gilbert answered, gloomily. ‘“ But I dare say you are right, and that it would have been better for me to have waited.” “You may hope everything, if you can only be pa- tient,” said the Captain. ‘I tell you frankly that noth- would make me happier than to see my dear child married toa good man. I have had many dreary thoughts about her future of late, I think you know that I have nothing to leave her.” “T have never thought of that. If she were destined to inherit all the wealth of the Rothschilds, she could be no dearer to me than she is.” ‘Ah, what a noble thing true loveis! And do you know that she is not really my niece—only a poor waif that I adopted fourteeu years ago?” “TY have heard as much from her own lips. There is nothing, éxcept some unworthiness in herself, that could make any change in my estimation of her.” “‘Unworthiness in herself! You need never fear that, But I must tell you Marian’s story before this business goes any further, Will you come and smoke your cigar with me to-night? She is going to drink tea at a neigh- ber’s, and we shall be alone. They are all fond of her, poor ‘child !” “T shall be very happy to come, And in the mean time you will try and ascertain the real state of her feel- ings, without distr her in any way; and you will tell me the truth with all frankness, even if it is to bo the death-blow to all my hopes?” “* Even if it should be that, But I do not fear such a melancholy result. I think Marian is sensible enough to know the value of an honest man’s heart.” Gilbert quitted the Captain in 4 more hopeful spirit than that in which he had gone to the that day It-was only reasonable that this man should be the best judge of his niece’s f: i‘ “Left alone, George ot paced the room in a meditative mood, with his hands thrust deep into his trowsers-pockets, and his gray head bent. thoughtfully. “*She noust like him,” he muttered to himself. “Why should not she like him ?—good-looking, generous, clever, :prosperous, well’ connected, and. over head and ears in love with her. Such a marriage is the very thing I have been praying for. And without such a marriage be her fate when Iam gone? A drudge and dependent in some middle-class family, perhaps— tyrannized over and tormented by a brood of vulgar o 3 Marian came in at the open window, while he was still pacing to and fro with a disturbed countenance. ‘(My dear uncle, what is the matter?” she asked, go- ing up to him‘and laying a caressing hand upon fis shoulder. ‘I know you never walk about like less you are worried by something.” I. am-not worried to-day, my love; only a little per- ene answered the Captain, detaining the caressing ttle hand, and planting himself face to face with his niece in the full sunlight of the broad bow-window. “Marian, I thought you and I had no secrets from each er. ¥ Secrets, Uncle George !” ‘*Yes, my dear. Haven’t you something pleasant to tell your old uncle—something that a girl generally likes telling? Youi bad a visitor yesterday afternoon while I was asleep.” “Mr, Fenton.” “Mr, Fenton. He has been here with me just now; and I know that he asked you to be his wife.” “ He did, Uncle George.” “And-you didn’t refuse him, Marian?” “‘ Not positively, Uncle George. He took me so much by. surprise, you see ; and I really don’t know how to re- fuse any ove, but I think I ought to have made him un- more clearly that I meant no.” * But why, my dear?” « Because I’m sure I don’t care about him as much as I ought to care. I like him very well, you know, and think, him clever and agreeable, and all that kind of » “That will soon grow into a warmer feeling, Marian; at least, I trust in God that it will do so,” **Why, dear uncle?” * Because I have set my heart upom this marriage. Oh Marian, my love, I have never ventured to to you about your future—the days that must come when I am dead and gone; and you can never. know how many anxious hours I have spent thinking of it, Such a mar- as this would secure you happiness and prosperity t un- Whe feng abact kien fondty, telling cared little him she what might become.of her lifé when he should be lost to her. grief must needs be the sorrow of her existence; and it would matter nothing to her what might come afterwards, FENTON’S QUEST. “But, my dear love, ‘afterwards’ will make the greater part of your life. We must consider. these things se- riously, Marian. A good man’s affection is not to be thrown away rashly. You have known Mr, Fenton a very short time; and perhaps itis only natural you should think of him with comparative indifference,” “‘T did not say I was indifferent to him, Uncle George ; only that I do not love him as he seems to love me, It oe akind of sin to accept so much and give so ““The love will come, Marian; I am sure that it will come,” r She shook her head playfully. “What a darling match-making uncle it is!” she said, and then kissed him and ran away. ‘ She thought of Gilbert Fenton a good deal during the rest of that day; thought that it was a pleasant thing to be loved so truly, and hoped that she might always have him for her friend. When she went out to drink tea in the evening his image went with her ; and she found herself making involuntary comparisons between a speci- men of provinclal youth whom she encountered at her friend’s house and Mr. Fenton, very much to the advan- tage of the Australian merchant, While Marian Nowell was away at this social gathering, Captain Sedgewick and Gilbert Fenton sat under the walnut-trees smoking their cigars, with a bottle of claret on a little iron table before them. “When I came back from India fourteen years ago on the sick-list,,” began the Captain, “I went down to Brighton, a place I had been fond of in my young days, to recruit, It wasin the early spring, quite out of the fashionable season, and the town was very empty. My lodgings were in a dull street at the extreme east, leading away from the sea, but within sight and sound of it. The solitude and quiet of the place suited me; and I used to walk up aud down the cliff in the dusk of evening enjoy- ing the perfect loneliness of the scene. The house I lived in was a comfortable one, keptby an elderly widow who was a pattern of neatness and propriety, There were no children ; for some time no other lodgers; and the place was as quiet as the grave. All this suited me very well. I wanted rest, and I was getting it. “I had been at Brighton about a month, when the drawing-room floor over my head was taken by a lady and her little girl of about five years old, I used to hear the child’s feet pattering about the room, but she was not a noisy child by any means; and when I did happen to hear her voice, it had a very pleasant sound tome. The lady was an invalid, and was a good deal of trouble, my landlady took occasion to tell me, as she had no maid of her own. Her name was Nowell. ‘Soon after this I encountered her on the cliff one afternoon with her little girl. Thechild and I had met once or twice before in the hall; and her recognition of me led to a little friendly talk between me and the mother. She was a — delicate-looking woman, who had once been very p: , but whose heauty had for the most part been worn away, either by ill-health or trouble. She was very young, five-and-twenty at the utmest. She told me that the little girl was her only child, and that her hus- band was away from England, but that she expected his return before long. . “ After this we met almost every afternoon; and I be- gan tolook out for these meetings, and our quiet talk upon the solitary cliff, as the pleasantest part of my day. Tahere was a winning grace about this Mrs. Nowell’s man- ner that I had never seen in any. other woman; and I rew to be more interested.in her than I cared to confess to myself, It matters little now; and I may freely own how weak I was.in those days. “ T could see that she was very ill, and I did not need the ominous hints of the landlady, who had contrived to question Mrs. Nowell’s. doctor, to inspire me with the dread that she might never recover. I thought of her a great deal, and watched the fading light in her eyes, and listened to the weakening tones of her voice with a sense of trouble that seemed utterly disproportionate to the oc- casion, I will not say that I loved her;. neither the fact that she was. another man’s wife, nor the fact that she was soon to diey was ever absent from my mind when I thought of her. I will only say that she was more to me than any woman had ever been before or.has ver been since. It was the one sentimental episode of my life, and @ very brief one. “The weeks went by, and her husband did not come, I think the trouble and anxiety ~caused by his delay did a good deal toward hastening the inevitable end; but she bore her grief very quietly, and never uttered a com- plaint of him. in my hearing. She paid her way regu- larly enough for a considerable time, and then all at once broke down, and confessed to the landlady that she had not a shilling more in the world. The woman was a hard creature, and told her if that was the case she must find some other lodgings, and immediately. I heard this, not from Mrs. Nowell, but from the landlady, who seemed to consider her conduct thoroughly, justified by the highest code of morals. She wasa lone, unprotected woman, and how was she to pay her rent and taxes if her best floor was occupied by a non-paying tenant? “I was by no meaus a rich man; but I could not endure to think of that helpless dying creature thrust out into the streets; and I told my landlady that I would be an- swerable for Mrs. Nowell’s rent, and for the daily expenses on her behalf, Mr, Nowell would in all proba- bility ap in good time to relieve me from the respon- sibility, but in the mean while that poor soul up stairs was not to be distressed. I begged that she might know nothing of this undertaking on my part. “It was not long after this when our daily meetings on came toanend. Mild as the weather was by this Mrs. Nowell’s doctor had forbidden her going out . I knew that she had no maid to send out with the child, so I sent the servant up toask her if she would trust the little one for a daily walk with me, This BEE at she was very pleased to do, and Marian became my dear | pa! little companion every afternoon. She had taken to me, as the phrase goes, from the very first.. She was the gen- child I had ever met with—a little grave for her years, and tenderly thoughtful of others. “One evening Mrs. Nowell sent forme, I went up to Ap: it has been a mere matter of self-ind' the drawing-room immediately, and found her sitting in an easy-chg@jir, propped up by pillows, and very much ¢ ed for the worse since I had seen her last. She told me she had discovered the secret of my goodness to her, as she called it, from the landlady, an fat she had sent for me to th: me. “<«T can give you nothing but thanks and blessings,” she said, ‘forI am the most helpless creature in this world. - suppose my husband will come here before I die, and will relieve you from the risk you have taken for me; but he can never repay you for your goodness.” “T told her to give herself no trouble on my account ; but I could not help saying that I thought her husband had behaved shamefully in not coming to England to her long ere this, * ¢ He knows that you are ill, I suppose !’ I said. “«¢Oh yes, he knows that. T was ill when he sent me home. We had been traveling about the Continent al- most ever since our marriage. He married me against his father’s will, and lost all chance of a great fortune by doing so. I did not know how much he sacrificed at the time, or I should never have consented to his losimg so much for my sake. I think the knowledge of what he had lost came between us very soon, I know that his love for me has grown weaker as years went by, and that. I have been little better than a burden to him. I could never tell you how lonely my life has been in those great foreign cities, where there seems such perpetual gayety and pleasure., I think I must have died of the solitude and dullness—the long dreary summer evenings, the dis- mal winter days—if it had not been for my darling child. She has been all the world to me. And, O God! she cried, with a look ‘of anguish that went to my he: ‘ what will become of her when I am dead, and she is lef: to the care of a selfish, dissipated man ?’ “ ‘You need never fear that she will be without one friend while I live,’ I said. ‘Little Marian is very dear to me, and I shall make it my business to watch over her career as well as I can.’ “‘The poor soul clasped my hand, and pressed her feverish lips to it in a transport of gratitude. Whata brute a man must have been who could neglect such a woman ! “* After this I went up to her room every evening, and read to her a little, and cheered her as well as I could; but I believe her heart was broken. The end came very suddenly at last. I had intended to question her about her husband’s family; but the subject was a difficult one to approach, and I had put it off from day to day, hoping that she might rally a little, and would be in a better con- dition to discuss business matters, “ She never did rally. I was with her when she died, and her Jast act was to draw her child toward her with her feeble arms and lay my hand upon the little one’s head, looking up at me with sorrowful, pleading eyes. She was quite speechless then, but I knew what the look meant, and answered it. “ and, for chief glory of all, the bright blue river, which made the principal boundary of the place, washing the edge of the wide sloping la’ and making perpetual music on a summer day Rane topohe ripple. There was a good deal of company about the lawn when John Saltram and his friend were ushered into the pretty drawing-room. ‘The cheerful sound of croquet-balls came from a level stretch of grass visible from! the windows, and quite a little fleet of boats were jostling one another at the landing by the Swiss. boat-house, Mrs. Branston came in fromthe garden to welcome. them, looking very pretty in a coquettish little white-chip- hat with a scarlet feather, and a pale-gray silk dress looped up over an elaborately-flounced muslin petticoat. She was a slender little woman, with a brilliant complex— ion, sunny waving hair, and innocent blue eyes; the sort. of woman whom a man would wish to shelter from all the storms of life, but whom he might scarcely care to choose for the companion of a perilous voyage. She professed herself very much pleased to see Gilbert Fenton. “TJ have heard so much of you from Mr, Saltram,” she. said. “He is always p you. I believe he cares: more for you than any one else in the world,” “T have not many people to care for,” answered John Saltram ; “and Gilbert is a friend of long standing.” A sentimental expression came over Mrs, Branston’s girlish face, and she gave a litle regretful sigh. “JT am sorry you will not see my husband to-day,” she said, after a brief pause. “‘It is one of his bad days.” The two gentlemen both expressed their re upon this subject; and then they went out to the lawn with Mrs. Branston and joined the group by the river-brink, who were waiting for the race. Here Gilbert found some pleasant people to talk to; while Adela Branston and John Saltram strolled, as if by accident, to a seat a little way 3 from the rest, and sat there talking in a confi- dential manner, which might not really constitute a flir- tation, but which had rather that appearance to the eye of the ignorant observer. _ . Th boats eine Sealing ty at last, and there was the: ‘pia excitement among the spectators; but it seemed to Gilbert that Mrs. Branston found more interest in Johw FPENTON’S QUEST. Saltram’s conversation than in the race. It is possible she had seen too many such contests to care much for the result of this one, She scarcely looked up as the boats shot by, but sat with her little gloved hands clasped upon her knee, and her bright face turned towards John Sal- tram, They all went into the house at about seven o’clock, after a good deal of croquet and flirtation, and found a free-and-easy kind of banquet, half-tea, half-luncheon, but very substantial after its kind, waiting for them in the long low dining-room, Mrs, Branston was very pop- wlar as a hostess, and had a knack of b: pleasant people round her—journalists and musical men, clever young painters who were beginning to make their mark in the art-world, pretty girls who could sing or play well, or talk more or less b mtly. Against nonentities of all kinds Adela Branston set her face, and had a polite way of dropping people from whom she derived no amusement, pleading in her pretty childish way that it was so much more pleasant for all parties. . That this mundane existence of ours was not intended to be all pleasure, was an idea that had never yet troubled Adela Branston’s mind, She had been petted and spoiled by every one about her from the beginning of her brief life, and had passed from the frivolous career of a school- gu to a position of wealth and independence as Michael ranston’s wife ; fully believing that, in making the sac- rifice involved in ee a man forty years her senior, she earned the right take her own pleasure, and to gratify every caprice of her infantile mind, for the re- mainder of her days. She was supremely selfish in an agreeable unconscious fashion, and considered herself a domestic martyr whenever she spent an hour in her hus- band’s sick-room, listening to his peevish accounts of his maladies, or reading a ‘‘ Times” leader upon the threat- ening aspect of things in the City for the solace of his loneliness and pain, The popping of corks sounded merrily amidst the buzz of conversation, and great antique silver tankards of Badminton and Moselle cup were emptied as by magic, none knowing how except the grave, judicial-looking butler, whose omniscient eye reigned above the pleasant confusion of the scene. And after about an hour and a half wasted in this agreeable in-door picnic, Mrs. Bran- ston and her friends adjourned to the drawing-room, where the grand piano had been pushed into a conspicu- ous position, and where the musical business of the even- ing speedily began. It was very pleasant sitting by the open windows in the summer twilight, with no artificial light in the room ex- cept the wax candles on the piano, listening to good mu- sic and talking a little now and then in that subdued con- fidential tone to which music makes such an agreeable accompaniment. Adela Branston sat in the midst of a group in a wide bay-window, and although John Saltram was standing near her chair, he did not this time engage the whole of her attention. Gilbert found himself seated next a very animated young lady, who rather bored him with her raptures about the music, and who seemed to have as- sisted at every morning and evening concert that had been given within the last two years. To any remoter period her memory did not extend, and she implied that she had been before that time in a chrysalis or non-ex- istent condition. She told Mr. Fenton, with an air of innocent wonder, that she had heard there were people living who remembered the first appearance of Jenny A little before ten o’clock there was a general move- ment for the rail, the greatest number of Mrs. Brans- ton’s guests having come from town, There was a scar- city of flys at this juncture, so John Saltram and Gilbert Fenton walked back to the station in the moonlight. “ Well, Gilbert, old fellow, what do you think of the lady?” Mr. Saltram asked, when they were a little way beyond the gates of Rivercombe. “*I think her very pretty, Jack, and—well—yes—upon the whole, fascinating. But I don’t like the look of the thing altogether, and I fancy there’s considerable bad taste in giving parties with an invalid husband up stairs. I was wond how Mr, Branston liked the noise of all that talk and laughter in the dining-room, or the music that came afterwards.” “My dear fellow, old Branston delights in society. He is generally well enough to sit in the drawing-room and look on at his wife’s parties. He doesn’t much on those occasions, Indeed I believe he is quite incapable of conversing about anything except the rise and fall of Indian stock, or the fluctuations in the value of indigo. And, you see, Adela married him with the intention of enjoying her life, She confesses as much e8 with perfect candor.” . *‘T dare say she is very candid, and just as shallow,” said Gilbert Fenton, whe was inclined to set his face against this entanglement of his friend’s,” ; ““Well—yes, I sup) she is rather shallow. Those pretty, pleasant little women generally are, I think— depth of feeling and force of mind are so apt to go along with blue spectacles and a ru, aspect, A woman’s prettiness must stand for something. There is so much real pleasure in the contemplation of a charming face, that a man had need rescind a little in the way of mental qualifications, And I do not think Adela Branston is without a heart.” “You praise her very warmly. Are you really in love with her, John ?” his friend asked seriously. “No, Gilbert, upon my honor. I heartily wish I were. I wish Icould give her more by-and-by, when death brings about her release from Michael Branston, than the kind of I feel for her. No, I am not in love with her; but I she likes me, and a man must be some- thing worse than a brute if he is not grateful for a pretty ‘woman’s regard.” They said no more about Mrs. Branston. Gilbert had astrong distaste for the business; but he did not care to take upon himeelf the office of mentor toa friend whose will he knew to be much stronger than his own, and to whose domination he had been apt to submit most as to the influence of a superior mind. It disap- i him a little to find that John Saltram was of making @ mercenary marriage, capable even of greater baseness involved in the anticipation of a dead man’s shoes; but his heart was not to be turned against the chosen friend of his youth, and he was prompt in making excuses for the line of conduct he disapproved, CHAPTER VY. HALCYON DAYS, Ir was still quite early in September when Gilbert Fen- ton went back to Lidford, and took up his quarters once more in the airy chintz-curtained bedchamber set apart for him in his sister’s house. He had devoted himself very resolutely to business during the interval that had gone by since his last visit to that quiet country house; but the time had seemed very long to nim, and he fan- cied himself a kind of martyr to the necessities of com- merce, The aspect of his affairs of late had not been quite freefrom unpleasantness. There were difficulties in the conduct of business in the Melbourne branch of the house, that branch which was under the charge of a cousin of Gilbert’s, about whose business capacities the late Mr, Fenton had entertained the most exalted opin- ion. : The Melbourne trading had not of late done much credit to this gentleman’s commercial genius, He had put his trust in firms that had crumbled to pieces before the bills drawn upon them came due, involving his cousin in considerable losses. Gilbert was rich enough to stand these losses, however; and he reconciled himself to them as best he might, taking care to send his Australian part- ner imperative instructions for a more prudent system of trading in the future, The uneasiness and vexation produced by this business was still upon him when he went down to Lidford; but he relied upon Marian Nowell’s presence to dissipate all his care, He did find himself perfectly happy in her society. He was troubled by no doubts as to her affection for him, no uncertainty as to the brightness of the days that were to come. Her manner seemed to him all that a man could wish in the future partner of his life. An innocent trustfulness in his superior judgment, a child-like sub- mission to his willewhich Marian displayed upon all occa- sions, were alike flattering and delightful. Nor did she ever appear to grow tired of that talk of their future which was so peasant to her lover. There was no shadow of doubt upon her face when he spoke of the serene hap- piness which they two were to find in an existence spent together. He was the first who had ever spoken to her of these things, and she listened to him with an utter simplicity and freshness of mind. Time had reconciled Isabella Lister to her brother’s choice, and she now deigne to smile upon the lovers, very much to Gilbert’s satisfaction. He had been too proud to supplicate her good graces; but he was pleased that his only sister should show herself gracious and affectionate to the girl he loved so fondly. During this second visit of his, therefore, Marian came very often to Lidford House; sometimes accompanied by her uncle, sometimes alone; and there was perfect harmony be- tween the elder and younger lady. The pheasants upon Martin Lister’s estate did not sufs fer much damage from his brother-in-law’s gun that au- tumn, Gilbert found it a great deal pleasanter to spend his mornings dawdling in the little cottage drawing-room or under the walnut-.rees with Marian, than to waste his noontide hours in the endeavor to fill a creditable game- bag. There is not very much to tell of the hours which those two spent together so happily. It was an innocent, frivolous, useless employment of time, and left little trace behind it, except in the heart of one of those two. Gilbert wondered at himself when, in some sober inter- val of reflection, he happened to consider those idle mornings, those tranquil, uneventful afternoons and evenings, remembering what a devoted man of business man he had once been, and how a few months ago he would have denounced such a life in another, “Well,” he said to himself, with a happy laugh, “a man can take this fever but once in his life, and it is only wise in him to surrender himself utterly to the divine delirium, I shall have no excuse for neglecting business by-and-by, when my little wife and I are se down to- gether for the rest of our days. Let me be her lover while Imay. Can I ever be less than her lover, I won- der? Will marriage, or custom, or the assurance that we belong to each other for the rest of our days, take the poetry out of our lives? I think not; Ithink Marian must always be to me what she has seemed to me from the very first—something better and brighter than the common things of this life.” Custom, which made Marian Nowell dearer to Gilbert Fenton every day, had by this time familiarzed her with his position as her future husband, She was no longer surprised or distressed when he pleaded for a short en- gagement, and a speedy realization of that Utopian home which they were to inhabit together. The knowledge of her uncle’s delight in this engagement of hers might have reconciled her to it, even if she had not loved Gil- bert Fenton. And she told herself that she did love him ; or, more often putting the matter in the form of a ques- tion, asked herself whether she could be so basely un- grateful as not to love one who regarded her with such disinterested affection? mas It was settled finally, after a good deal of pleasant dis- cussion, that the wedding should take place early in the coming spring—at latest in April. Even this seemed a long delay to Gilbert; but he submitted to it as an iney- itable concession to the superior instinct of his betrothed, which harmonized so well with Mrs, Lister’s ideas of wisdom and propriety, There was the house to be se- cured, too, so that he might have a fitting home to which to take his darling when their honeymoon was over; and as he had no female relation in London who could take the care of furnishing this earthly paradise off his hands, he felt that the whole business must devolve upon him- self, and could not be done without time. Captain Sedgewick promised to bring Marian to town for a fortnight in October, in order that she ht assist her lover in the delightful duty of house-hunting. She looked forward to this with quite a child-like pleas- , ure, Her life at Lidford had been copuldialy happy, but it was a monotonous kind of happiness, the no tion of going about London, even at the dullest time of the year, was very delightful to her. The weather happened to. be ly fine that Sep- tember, It was the brightest month of the year, and the lovers took long rambles together in the woodland roads and lanes about Lidford, sometimes alone, more often with the Captain, who was a very fair pedestrian, in spite of having had abullet or two through his legs in the days gone by. When the weather was too warm for walking, Gilbert borrowed Martin Lister’s dog-cart, and drove them on long journeys of exploration to remote villages, or to the cheery little market-town ten miles away. They all three set out for a walk one afternoon, when Gilbert had been about afortnight at Lidford, with no particular destination, only bent on enjoying the lovely weather and the rustic beauty of woodland and meadow. The Captain chose their route, as he always did on these occasions, and under his guidance they followed the river-bank for some distance, and then turned aside into a wood in which Gilbert Fenton had never been before. He said so, with an expression of surprise at the beauty of the place, where the fern grew deep under giant oaks: and beeches, and where the mossy ground dipped sud- denly down to a deep still pool which reflected the sunlit sky through a break in the dark foliage that sheltered it. “What! have you never been here?” exclaimed the Captain ; *then you haye never seen Heatherly, I sup- pose? er “Never. By-the-way, is not that Sir David Forster’s place?” asked Gilbert, remembering John Saltram’s proraise, He had seen very little more of his friend after that visit to Rivereombe, and had half forgotten Mr. Saltram’s talk of coming down to this neighborhood on purpose to be*presented to Marian, think a good deal of it in these parts. There are some fine Sir Joshuas among the family portraits, painted in the days when the Forsters were better off and of more importance in the county than they arenow. And. there are a few other good pictures—Dutch interiors, am some Sea-scapes by Bakhuysen. Decidedly you ought to see Heatherly. . Shall we push on there this afternoon?” “Ts it far from here?” “‘Not much more than a mile. This wood joins the park and there is a public right of way across the park to the Lidford road, so the gate is always open. We can’t waste our walk, and I know Sir David quite well enough to ask him to let you see the pictures, if he should happen to be at home.” *T should like it of all things,” said Gilbert, eagerly. “My friend John Saltram knows this Sir David Forster, and he talked of being down here at this time ; 1 forgot all about it till you spoke of Heatherly just now, I have a knack of forgetting things nowadays.” «IT wonder you should forget anything connected with Mr. Saltram, Gilbert,” said Marian—‘‘that Mr, Saltram of whom you think so much. I cannot tell you how anxious I am to see what kind of person he is; not handsome—you have confessed a8 much as that,”’ “Yes, Marian, I admit the painful fact, There are peo- ple who call John Saltram ugly. But his face isnot a com- mon one, it isa very picturesque kind of ugliness—a face Velasquez would have loved to paint, I think. It is a ragged, strongly-marked countenance, with a villainous- ly dark complexion; but the eyes aré very fine, the mouth perfection; and there is a look of power in the face that, to my mind, is better than beauty.” “And I think you owned that Mr. Saltram 1s hardly the most agreeable person in the world,” “Well, no, he is not what one could wel: call an emi- nently agreeable person, And yet he exercises a good deal of influence over the men he knows, without admit- ting many of them to his friendship, He is very clever; not a brilliant talker by any means, except, on rare o¢ca- sions, when he chooses to give full swing to his ee wert he does not lay himself out for social successes; but he is a man who seems to know more of every subject than men about him. I doubt if he will ever succeed at bar. He has so little perseverance or steadiness, and in- dulges in such an erratic, desultory mode of life; but he has made his mark in literature already, and I think he might become a great man if he chosey Whether he ever will choose is a doubtful question,” “T am afraid/he must be rather a dissipated, danger- ous kind of person,” said Marian. aed “Well, yes, he is subject to occasional outbreaks of dissipation. They don’t last long, and they seem to leave not the faintest impression upon his herculean con- stitution ; but of course this sort of thing does more or less injury to a man’s. mind, however comparatively harmless the form of his dissipation may be, There are very few men whom John Saltram can not drink undex the table, and rise with a steady brain himself when the wassail is ended ; yet I believe, in a general way, fowmen drink less than he does, At cards he is equally strong; a ast-master in all games of skill; and the is apt to ee rather high at one or two of the ciubs he longs to. He has a wonderful power of self-restraint when hoe cares to exert it; will play six or seven hours every night for three weeks ata stretch, and then not touch a card for six months. Poor old John,” said Gilbert Fenton, with a half-regretful sigh ; ‘‘ under happier circumstances he might be such a good man!” “ But I fear he is a dangerous friend for you, Gilbert,” exclaimed Marian, horrified by this glimpse of a bachelor life. “No, dar’ I have never shared his wilder There are a don chamam epics with whom he éouperts st such times, I believe Sir David Forster is one of them.” *< Sir David has the reputation of leading rather a wild in London,” said Captain, “‘and of bringing a oe = Things have dissipated set down here ag me ag have not gone well with him, wife, who was @ very beautiful and whom he passionately loved, was killed by a fi from her horse a few months after birth of her first child. The child died too, and “Yes, It is something of a show-place too, and te 8 FENTON’S QUEST. double loss ruined Sir David. He used to spend the ter part of hia life at Heatherly, and was a general ‘avorite among the country people; but since that time he has avoided the place, except during the shooting season, He has a hunting-box in the shires, and is a re; dare-devil over a country, they tell me.” had reached the ‘little gate opening from the ‘wood into the park by this time. There was not much difference in the aspect of the sylvan scene upon the ‘other side of the fence. Sir David’s domain had beena =. neglected of late years, and the brushwood and bles grew thick under the noble old trees, The timber had not yet suffered by its owner’s improvidence, The end of all things must have come for Sir David be- fore he would have consented to the spoliation of a place he fondly loved, little as he had cared to inhabit it since the day that shattered ali that was brightest and best in his life. * For some time Captain Sedgewick and his companions ‘went along a footpath under the shelter of the trees, and then emerged upon a wide stretch of smooth turf, across whioh they commanded a perfect view of the cipal front of the’old house. It wasa quadrangular building of the Elizabethan period, very plainly built, and with no special beauty to recommend it to the lover of the pictu- ue, Whatever charm of form it may have possesse: in the past had been ruthlessly extirpsted by the mod- ernization of the windows, which were now allof one size and form—along gaunt range of unsheltered case- ments staring blankly out upon the spectator, There were no flower-beds, no terraced walks, or graceful flight of steps before the house ; only a bare grass-plot, with a stiff line of tall elms on each side, and a wide dry moat dividing it from ihe turf in the park. Two lodges—pon- derous square brick buildings with very small windows, each the exact counterpart of the other, and a marvel of substantial ugliness—kept guard over a pair of tall iron i about six hundred yards apart, approached by stone ridges that spanned the moat, Captain Sedgewick rang a bell hanging by the side of one of these gates, whereat there arose a shrill peal that set the rooks screaming in the tall elms overhead. An elderly female appeared in answer to this summons, and opened the gate in a slow, mechanical way, without the © faintest show of interest in the people about to enter, and looking as if she would have admitted a gang of obvious purgiace with equal indifference. ~~ Rather a hideous style of piace,” said Gilbert, as they ‘walked towards the house; ‘“ but I think show-places, as ’ +, general rule, excel in ugliness. I dare say the owners them find a dismal kind of satisfaction in considering the depressing influence their dreary piles of bricks-and- mortar must exercise on the minds of strangers; it may “be a short of compensation for being obliged to live in such a jail of a place.” There was 3 clumsy low stone portico over the door, wide enough to admit a carriage; and lounging about a bench under this stony shelter they found a sleepy-look- ing man-servant, who informed Captain Sedgewick that -' Sir David was at Heatherly, but that he was out shooting * with his friends at this — moment, In his absence the man would be very happy to show the house to Cap- tain wick and his party, Gilbert Fenton asked about John Saltram, Yes, Mr. Saltram had arrived at Heatherly on Tuesday evening, two nights ago. “They went over the state rooms, and looked at tne pictures, which were really as good asthe Captain had represented them. The inspection occupied a little more than an hour, and they were ready to take their depar- when the sound of masculine voices ounded loudly in the hall, and their conductor announc; . that Sir David and his friends had come in, There were only two gentlemen in the hall when they went into that spacious marble-paved chamber, where there were great logs burning on the wide open hearth, in spite of the warmth of the September day. One of these * ‘two was Sir David Forster, a big man, with a light-brown beard and a florid complexion. The other was Jobn Sal- tram, who sat in a ——— in one of the deep window-seats examining breech-loader. His back towards the window, and the glare of the shone full upon his dark face with a strange glance told Marian Nowell who this man was, That powerful face, with its unfathomable eyes and thoughtful mo’ was not the countenance she had conjured up from depths of her imagination when Gilbert Fenton had described his friend; yet she felt that this stranger loun; in the window was John Saltram, and no other. He rose and set down his gun very quietly, and stood by the window waiting while Captain Sedgewick introduced Gilbert to Sir David. Then he came forward, shook hands with his friend, and was thereupon presented to Marian and her uncle by * Gilbert, who made these introductions with a kind of eagerness. . RP David was full of friendliness and tality, and Rowan on keeping them to show Gilbert and Miss * Nowell some pi in the billiard-room and in his own ‘private snuggery, apartments which were not shown to nt es ‘strolled through these rooms in a leisurely way, Sir David considerable to show Gilbert Fen- this girl was like; whether she had indeed _ beauty to recommend ‘her, or whether she was in sober reality the perfect’ being Gilbert Fenton believed her to _ be, ~~ She was very beautiful. The first brief look convinced Mr, Saltram "that upon this point at least her lover had . “in ‘no lover-like exaggeratién. There was a + charm in the face; a higher, more penetrating ; than ection of feature; a kind of of .s painter—so fitting a subject for his brush, } power of perfect reproduction, un- “aah BY tw oe tee RE Aakers yy, almost accidental, successes of genius, Marian Nowell’s face thought- fully as he talked to her, for the most part, about the pictures which they were looking at together. Before their inspection of these art treasures was ended, he was fain to confess to himself that she was intelligent as well as beautiful. It was not that she had said anything par- ticularly brilliant, or had shown herself learned in the qualities of the old. Dutch masters; but she possessed that charming child-liké capacity for receiving informa- tion from a superior mind, and that perfect and rapid power of appreciating a clever man’s conversation, which are apt to seem so delightful to the sterner sex when exhibited by a pretty woman. At first she had been just a little shy and constrained in her talk with John Saltram. Her lover’s account of this man had not inspired her with any exalted opinion of hischaracter. She was rather inclined to look upon as a person to be dreaded, a friend whose influence was dangerous at best, and who might prove the evil ge- nius of Gilbert Fenton’s life. But whatever her opinion on this point might remain, her reserve soon melted be- fore John Saltram’s clever talk and kindly coneiliating manner, He laid himself out to please on this occasion, and it was very rarely he did that without succeeding. “T want you to think of meas a kind of brother, Miss Nowell,” he said in the course of theirtalk, ‘‘ Gilbert dj|and I have been something like brothers for the last twelve years of our lives, and it would be a hard thing, for one of us, at least, if our friendship should ever be lessened, You shall find me discretion itself by- and-by, and you shall see that I can respect Gilbert’s al- tered ition ; but I shouldn’t like to lose him, and I don’t think you look capable of setting your face against your husband’s old friend.” Marian blushed a litt!e at this, remembering that only an hour ortwoago she had been ing that this friend- ship was a perilous one for Gilbert, and that it be well if John Saltram’s influence over him could be lessened somehow in the future. “IT don’t believe I should ever have the power to di- minish Gilbert’s d for you, Mr, Saltram, even were I inclined to do so,” she said, “Oh yes, you would; your power over him will be illimitable, depend upon it. But, nowI have seen you, I think you will only use it wisely.” Marian shook her head, laughing gayly. “J am much more fittined to be ruled than to rule, Mr, Saltram,” she said, ‘I am utterly inexperienced in the world, you know, and Mr. Fenton is my superior in every way.” “ Your. superior in years, I know, but in what else?” “In every thing else. In intellect and judgment, as well as in knowledge of the world, You could never ima- gine what a quiet, changeless life I have led.” “Your intelleet is so much the clearer for that, I think. It has not been disturbed by all the narrow petty iuflu- ences of a life spent in what is called ‘ society.’” Before they left the house, Gilbert and the Captain were obliged to promise to dine at Heatherly next day, very much to the secret distaste of the former, who must thus lose an evening with Marian, but who was ashamed to reveal his hopeless condition by a persistent refusal. Captain Sedgewick begged John Saltram to choose an early day for dining at the cottage, and Gilbert gaye him a general invitation to Lidford House, These matters being settled, they departed, accomp:- nied by Mr, Saltram, who proposed to walk as far us the wood with them, and who extended his walk still further, only leaving them at the gate of the Captain’s modest do . Theconyersation was general throughout the way back; and they all found plenty to talk about as they loitered slowly on senong Se waving shadows of the trees flickering darkly on the winding path by which they went, Gilbert lingered outside the gate after Mar- ian and her uncle had gone into the cottage—he was so eager to hear his friend praise the girl he loved. ** Well, John?” he asked, ‘* Well, dear old boy, she is all that is beautiful and charming, and I can only congratulate you upon your choice, Miss Nowell’s perfection is a subject about which there can not be two opinions.” “And you think she loves me, Jack ?” “DoT think she loves you? Why, surely, Gil, that is nota question upon which you want another man’s judg- ment?” ‘ “No, of course not; but one is never tired of receiv- ing the assurance of that fact. And you could see by her way of speaking about me—” “She spoke of youin the prettiest manner possible, She seems to consider you quite a superior being,” “Dear girl! she is so good and simple-hearted. Do you know, Jack, I feel as if I could never be sufficiently grateful to Providence for my happiness in haying won such an angel,” “ Well, you certainly have reason to consider yourself a very lucky fellow; but I doubt if any man ever de- served good fortune better than you do, Gilbert, And, now, good-bye, It’s Ered unconscionably late, and I shall searcely get back in time to change my clothes for dinner. We spend all our evenings in pious devotion to billiards, with a rubber or two, or a little lansquenet to- wards the small hours, Don’t forget your engagement to-morrow, Good-bye.” They had a very poset evening at Heatherly, Sir David's guests at this time consisted of a Major Fol- jambe, an eldérly man who had seen a good deal of ser- vice in India; a Mr, Harker, who had been in the church and had left it in disgust, as alike unused to his tastes and capacity; Mr. Windus Carr, a prosperous West-end solicitor, who had inherited a first-rate practice from his father, and who devoted his talents to the enjoyment of life, leaving his clients to the care of his partner, a steady-going stout gentleman with a bald head, and an ine capers for business; and last, but by no means least, J Saltram, who possessed more influ- ence over Dayid Forster than any one else in the world. CHAPTER VI, SENTENCE OF EXILE, AFTER the dinner at mee John Saltram came very often to the cottage. He ” not care much for the fellows who wero staying with Sir David this year, he told Gilbert, He knew all Major Foljambe’s tiger-stories by heart, and had convicted him of glaring discepancies in his description of the havoe he and his brother officers had made among the big e, Windus Carr was a conceited, presuming cad, was always boring them with impossible accounts of his conquests among the fair sex; and that poor Harker was an unmitigated fool, whose brains had run into his billiard-cue... This was the report which John Saltram gaveof his fellow-guests ;: and he left the shooting-party morning after morning to go out boating with Gilbert and Marian, or to idle away the sunny hours on the lawn listening to the talk of the two others, and dropping im a word now and then ina sleepy way as he lay stretched on the grass near them, one up to the sky with his arms crossed above his ead, He called at Lidford House one day when Gilbert had told him he should stay at home to write letters, and was duly presented tothe Listers, who made a little dinner- party in his henor a few days afterwards, to which Cap- tain Sedgewick and Marian were invited—a party which went off with more brigheness and gayety than was wont to distinguish the Lidford-House entertainments, After this there was more boating—long afternoons spent on the winding river, with occasional landings upon pictur- esque little islands or wooded banks, where there were the wild flowers Marian Nowell loved and understood so well; more idle mornings in the cottage garden—a hap- py, innocent break in the common course of life, which seemed almost as pleasant to John Saltram as to his friend, He had contrived to make himself popular with every one at Lidford, and was an especial rere with Captain Sedgewick, He seemed so thoroughly happy among them, and dis- played such a perfect sympathy with them in all things, that Gilbert Fenton was taken utterly by surprise by his abrupt departure, which happenéd one day without a word of warning. He had dined at the cottage on the previous evening, and had been in the wildest, most reck- less spirits—that mood to which he was subject at rare intervals, and in which he exercised a potent fascination over his companions, He ane Dee the little party at the cottage into complete forgetfulness of the hour by his unwonted eloquence upon. subjects of a deeper, higher kind than it was his habit to speak about; and then at the last moment, when the clock on the mantel-piece had struck twelve, he had suddenly seated himself at the piano, and sung them Moore’s * Farewell, but whenever you welcome the hour,” in tones that went straight to the hearts of the listeners, He had one of those rare sym- pathetic voices which move people to tears unawares, and before the song was ended Murian was fairly over- come, and had made a hasty escape from the room, ashamed of her emotion, Late as it was, Gilbert accompanied his friend for a mile of his homeward route, He had secureda latch-key during his last visit to Lidford House, and couid let him- self quietly in of a night without intrenching upon the regular habits of Mrs. Lister’s household, Once clear of the cottage, John Saltram’s gayety van- ished ail in a moment, and gave place to a moody silence which Gilbert was powerless to ipate, “Ts there any thing amiss, Jack?" he asked, ‘I know high spirits are not always a sign of inward con- beri with you. Is there any thing wrong to-night?” vo. * Are you sure of that?” “ Quite sure, I may be a little knocked up, perhaps; that’s ali.” No hint of his intended departure fell from him when they shook hands and wished each other good-night ; but early next morning a brief note was delivered to Mr. Fenton at his sister’s house, to the following effect : “My Dear GILBERT :—I find myself obliged to leave this nm for London at ones, and have not time to thank any one for the kindness I have received during my.stay. Will you do the best to repair this omission on my part, and offer my warmest expressions of gratitude to Captain Sedgewick and Miss Nowell for their goodness to me? Pray apologize for me also to Mr, and . Lister for my inability to make my adieux in a more formal manner than this, a shortcoming which I hope to atone for on some future visit. Tell Lister I shall be very pleased to see him if he will look me up at the Pynx when he is next in town, : “Ever yours, JOHN SALTRAM,” This was all, There was no explanation of the reason for this hurried journey—a strange © between men who were on terms of such —— confidence as ob- tained with these two. Gilbert ton was not a little disturbed by this unlooked-for event, fearing that some kind of evil had befallen his friend, “His money-matters may haye fallen into a desperate condition,” he thought; ‘“‘or perhaps that woman—that Mrs, Branston is at the bottom of the business,” He went to the cottage that morning, as usual, but not with his accustomed feeling of unalloyed piness. The serene heaven of his tranquil life was clou: a little by this strange conduct of John Saltram’s, It wounded him to think that his old companion was keeping a se- cret from him, “6T suppose it is because I lectured him a little about Mrs, Branston the other day,” he said to himself, ** The business is connected with her in some way, I dare say, and poor Jack does not care to arouse my virtuous in- dignation, That comes of taking a high moral tone with one’s friend, He swallows the pill with a decent grace at the anes and shuts one out of his confidence ever after- wards,” Captain Sedgewick expressed himself much rised and disappointed by Mr. Saltram’s departure, said very little upon the subject, There seemed nothing extraordinary to her in the fact that a gentle- man id be d’to London by the cl: of business, Gilbert might have brooded longer upon the m: involved in his friend’s conduct, Dut that Cfentadoge brought him trouble in the of bad news from Mel. bourne, Hig confidential clerk “Miss MARIAN NOWELL, late of Lidford,, Midland- shire, is requested to communicate immediately with G. F., Post-office, Wigmore street; to whom) her silence has caused extreme anxiety. She may rely upon the adver- tiser’s friendship and fidelity under all possible cireum- stances,” Gilbert felt a little more hopeful after having done this. He fancied this advertisement must needs bring him some tidings of his lost love. The mystery might be hap— pily solved, after all, and Marian prove true to him... He tried to _persuade himself that this was possible; but it was very difficult to reconcile her line of conduct with the fact.of her regard for him. ; : In the evening he went to the Temple, eager to see John Saltram, from whom: he had .no intention to keep the secret of his trouble. He found his friend at home, writing, with his'desk pushed against. the open window, and the dust and shabbiness of his room dismally ob- vious in'the hot July sunshine. He started up as Gilbert -entered, and the dark face grew suddenly pale, “‘You took me my surprise,” he said, ‘‘I didn’t know ; you were in England.” ¥ “TI only landed. two.days, ago,”,answered. Gilbert, as they shook hands, ‘I dare say. 1 startled you,a-little, dear old fellow, coming in upon you without #moment’s; notice, wpe, LAY fancied 1 Pee a the Antingce- Rut, ou & unted you up. ly I was free, = en You have done well out yonder, I hope, Gilbert?” ”” “Yes; everything has gone well’ enough with mp) in business, But_my coming home has been'a dreary ons How is that ?” — eo ‘ a Sedgewick is dead, and Marian Nowell’ ig” ost. 12 FENTONS QUEST. “ Lost 1 What do mean by that?” Mr, Fenton told his friend all that had befallen him since his arrival in England. “J come to you for counsel and help, John,” he said, when he had finished his story. “J will give “you my help, 80 far as it is possible for one man to help another in such a business, and my counsel i@ all honesty,” answered John Saltram ; “‘ but I doubt if you will be inclined to receive it.” “ Why should you doubt that?” “Because it is not likely to agree with your own ideas.” “$ out, John,” “‘T think that if Miss Nowell had really loved you she wohld never have taken this step. I think that she must have left Lidford eo fe eens ote Dee engage ment rhaps expect your early return. ve oer ee of her can only end in failure and disap- pointmeént; and, although I am ready to assist you in any manner you wish, I warn you against sacrificing your life to a delusion.” “It is not under the delusion that Marian Nowell loves me that Iam going to search for her,’’ Gilbert Fenton said slowly, after an interval of silence. ‘‘I am not so weak as to believe that after what has happened, though I have tried to argue with myself, only this afternoon, that she may still be true to me, and that there may have been some hidden reason for her conduct. Granted that she wished to éescape from her engagement, she might have trusted to my honor to give her a prompt release the moment I became acquainted with the real state of her feelings. There must have been some stronger in- fluence than this at work when she left Lidford, I want to kmow the true cause of that hurried departure, John. I want to be sure that Marian Nowell is happy, and in safe hands, “ By what means do you hope to discover this?” : “rely a good deal upon repeated advertisements in the “ Times.” They may bring me tidings of. Marian— if not directly, from some person who has seen her since she left Lidford.” If she really wished to hide herself from you, she would most likely change her name.” “Why should she wish to hide herself from me? She must know that she might trust me. Of her own free will she would never do this cruel g. There must have been some secret influence at work upon my dar- ling’s mind. It shall be my business to discover what that influence was; or, in plainer words still, to dis- cover the man who has robbed me of Marian heart.” “Tt comes fo that, then,” said John Saltram, ‘You suspect some unknown rival?” “Yes; that is the most natural conclusion to ve at. And yet Heaveri knows how unwillingly I take Mat into consideration ” “There is no particular person whom you suspect?” “No one.” * “Tf there should be no result from your advertise- ments, what will you do?” ‘ “J cannot tell you just yet. Unless I get some kind of clue the business will seem ‘a hopeless one. But I cannot tmagine that the advertisements will fail completely. If she left Lidford to be married, there must be some record of her marriage, Should my first advertisement fail, my next shall be inserted with a view to discover such a record.” ‘And if; after infinite trouble, you should find her the wife of another man, what reward. would you have for your wasted time and lost labor ?” “The happiness of knowing her to be ina safe and honorable position. Ilove her too dearly to remain in ignorance of her fate.” 4 ‘Well, Gilbert, I know that good advice is generally thrown away in such a case as this; but I have a fixed opinion on the subject. To my mind, there is only one wise coursé ‘open to you, and that is, to let this thing alone, and.resign yourself to the inevitable. I acknowl- edge that Miss Nowell was eminently worthy of your affection ; but you know the old song, *If she be not fair to me, what care I how.fair she be?’ There are plenty of women in the world. ‘The choice is wide enough.” “Not for me, John. Marian Nowell is the only woman I have ever loved, the only woman I ever can love.” “My dear boy, it isso natural for you to believe that just now; and a year hence you will think so differ- ently !” Wo, John. But I am not going to make any protesta- tions of my constancy. Let the matter rest. I know that my life is broken—that this blow has left me noth- ing to hope for or to live for, except the hope of finding the girl who has wronged me. I won’t weary you with lamentations. My has been entirely of self since I came into this room. ‘Tell me your own affairs, Jack, old friend: How has the world gone with you since we at Liverpool last year ?” ‘